Paws vs. Claws Read online

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO FOUR

  YOUNG READERS—VIVIAN, TORI, GABI,

  AND NORAH—AND A FIFTH ONE WHO

  WILL BE APPEARING RIGHT AROUND

  PUB DATE.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One: Queenie

  Two: Arthur

  Three: Arthur

  Four: Queenie

  Five: Queenie

  Six: Arthur

  Seven: Queenie

  Eight: Arthur

  Nine: Queenie

  Ten: Arthur

  Eleven: Queenie

  Twelve: Arthur

  Thirteen: Queenie

  Fourteen: Arthur

  Fifteen: Queenie

  Sixteen: Arthur

  Seventeen: Arthur

  Eighteen: Queenie

  Nineteen: Arthur

  Twenty: Queenie

  Twenty-One: Arthur

  Twenty-Two: Queenie

  Twenty-Three: Queenie

  Twenty-Four: Arthur

  Twenty-Five: Queenie

  Twenty-Six: Arthur

  Twenty-Seven: Arthur

  Twenty-Eight: Queenie

  Twenty-Nine: Queenie

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  BAD NEWS, PUSSYCAT,” SAID BERTHA. “No cream today.”

  No cream today? Had I heard right? Well, that’s not a real question. Of course I’d heard right. My hearing is as good as it gets. Everything about me is as good as it gets. My looks, for example, are off the charts. I’m a thing of beauty, from my gold-flecked button nose to the tip of my snowy tail. And my eyes! I’ll make this simple: When you gaze into them, you never want to stop. That’s happened to me so often—in fact, every time I come upon a mirror.

  There are no mirrors in our kitchen here at the Blackberry Hill Inn. I prefer rooms with mirrors, but I make an exception for the kitchen. Every morning when I wake up I take an elegant little stretch—very different from the clumsy stretches of a certain other party who inhabits this place and whom you’ll probably meet later, nothing I can do about it—and I glide down off the top of the grandfather clock in the front hall and make my way here, where Bertha, the cook, is standing by to serve me fresh cream in a pretty china saucer, white with a gold border. This saucer is known to everyone as Queenie’s saucer. I’m Queenie, in case you haven’t guessed. I hope I’m not going too fast, although if I am, don’t expect me to do anything about it.

  I stood motionless in the doorway, waiting for … what, exactly? For some explanation? For Bertha to come to her senses? No! I was waiting for my cream, period. This was basic: I, Queenie, start my day with fresh cream served in a special saucer named after me, Queenie. End of story.

  Bertha looked at me. I looked at Bertha. Bertha’s a big, strong woman with a roundish, not unpleasant face. She’s quite presentable for a human, and we’ve always gotten along well, right up until now.

  “What’s with you?” she said.

  Seriously? I didn’t move a muscle. Perhaps a whisker or two quivered in the slight breeze drifting in from the hall. My whiskers are lovely, kind of a finishing touch to the whole stunning package, and quite intelligent in their own way. I wouldn’t have minded watching them quiver for a bit, but … no mirror. My mood—so cheery on awakening, the memory of a brief nighttime trip down to the basement and a chance encounter with a mouse fresh in my mind—was darkening fast.

  “Don’t blame me,” Bertha said. “It’s not my fault.”

  So? What did that have to do with anything? Did I care about the whos or whys or—

  At that moment Mom walked in, entering through the door that led to our family quarters upstairs.

  “Morning, Bertha,” Mom said. She glanced around. “Were you talking to someone?”

  Bertha pointed at me with her chin. Some humans have a cool move or two—I don’t mind admitting that—and the chin point is a personal favorite.

  Mom laughed. “I do that all the time.”

  If that was a joke, I didn’t get it. So Mom talks to me all the time? What’s funny about that? We’re very close. She tells me all sorts of things she tells nobody else. That’s how I know, for example, that the Blackberry Hill Inn, which belongs to us—us being me; Mom; and the twins, Harmony and Bro, now on some sort of school vacation—and I suppose that one other party mentioned earlier, although he’s the classic free-riding type, contributing nothing while eating us out of house and … but where was I? Right, the inn. The inn’s not doing so well, Mom told me the other night, when it was just the two of us sitting by the fire in the small parlor. A bunch of money coming our way is still tied up in court, with more knots added by the day, Mom says. “We need guests, Queenie, and lots of ’em. But you know the problem.”

  I did. It was the end of winter, a time of year known as mud season in these parts. All the snow melts, somehow turning into mud. Through the kitchen window I could see the remains of the tall, shining snowman Harmony and Bro had built, now short and squat and marked with many yellow zigzags, thanks to certain bathroom habits of that other party. I myself don’t go outside much at any time, but never in mud season. Mud spatters on my coat? What could be worse? Rain started up outside, pounding on the roof and slanting down the window.

  “I think Queenie’s mad at me,” Bertha said.

  “Oh?” said Mom.

  “There’s no cream today.”

  “How come?”

  “No idea. I set the empties on the back step when I leave for the day, and Walter has always made the delivery by the time I get here in the morning—two gallons of whole milk and a pint of cream.”

  “Who’s Walter?” Mom said.

  “Mr. Doone’s hired man,” said Bertha. “More like a hired kid—he can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen.”

  Mom opened the side door. One small glass bottle and two big ones, all empty, stood on the back step. Were we getting anywhere? If so, very very slowly. Mom closed the door.

  “Maybe the cows are taking the day off,” she said.

  Bertha laughed, so this must have been another joke. Mom laughed, too. Sometimes Mom laughs at her own jokes. She looks very pretty when she laughs; actually she looks pretty all the time. Her eyes are really quite beautiful, big and dark and full of thoughts. Not beautiful like mine—just throwing that in so you don’t form a wrong opinion. You’re welcome, but don’t count on me to keep looking out for you.

  “The fact is, there’s only one cow,” Bertha said. “And she never takes a day off.”

  “Mr. Doone has only one cow?” said Mom.

  “But she’s an Emsworth.”

  “Emsworth?” Mom said. “Is that a breed of cow? I’ve never heard of it.”

  Bertha shook her head. “Not a breed. This cow is the great-great—I don’t know how many greats—granddaughter of Lady Emsworth, the most prizewinning cow that ever lived in the Green Mountains. She’s called Sweet Lady Em, on account of the sweetness of her milk.” Bertha glanced my way. “And her cream,” she added.

  Yes, my cream. That was the issue. Thanks for remembering. Where was my cream? Had this Sweet Lady Em character—evidently a cow having something to do with the delivery of my cream—messed up? I had very little experience with cows—in fact, only one, and that experience was not good. This was back in the days when I used to do much more outdoor roaming. That ended when we had a visit from an unpleasant old lady from a group with a strange name—the Society for the Protection of Birds, or something of that nature. The protection of birds? That made no sense to me. Birds are very capable of protecting themselves—by quickly taking off and soaring into the sky, for example. You’ve got to be even quicker to have the slightest chance of actually catching one, which I’m happy to say I’ve done on many many …

  But back to my one and only experience with a cow. At the time, I happened to be following a mousy scent trail that led through a tiny hole in the wall of a barn not far from Blackberry Creek, which I’ve never crossed, creeks being wet. Tiny holes are no problem for me. I just sort of flowed through it and came softly down inside the barn, where I got my first look at this mouse of mine, a fattish little fellow burrowing into some straw on the floor. We seemed to be in a stall, sharing the space with a yellowish-colored cow busy chewing on something that smelled atrocious, chewing and chewing but never swallowing. Not my problem. I had no problems. Fattish mice are never much of a challenge. You don’t even need to be the best pouncer in the world, although it just so happens that I am.

  I pounced. What fun! Very quiet fun—a look of terror in micey eyes is completely silent—and at the same time good-natured, one of us batting the other around from paw to paw, and the other getting batted, no harm, no foul. No telling how it would end—which makes it even more fun! My mouse buddy and I were so busy having fun that we lost track of the cow, who must have changed position slightly because all of a sudden I felt an extremely heavy hoof settle down on my tail. I tried to scramble away and got nowhere. This was a nightmare. Meanwhile the mouse shot me one brief glance, then scurried up the wall and disappeared somewhere above, as though it got to decide when our little game was over. How maddening! Also maddening was this heavy hoof. I curled around and bit into it in decisive fashion. My teeth are needle-sharp, by the way, maybe should have gotten that fact in earlier. The cow lowered her head slightly and gazed down at me, still chewing in that annoying way but otherwise showing nothing—like pain, for example, from my needle-sharp teeth.

  I tried
hissing. I have a loud, harsh hiss that even scares me sometimes. She went on chewing. Her cud? Is that what it’s called? I believe so. And then came the very worst moment of the whole episode. The cow slobbered some of that cud directly down on me! On my sublime and glowing coat! I know how terrible you’re feeling for me right now, and I appreciate it. I’m sure nothing remotely so awful has ever happened to you.

  But back to me. For no reason I could see, the cow slowly raised her hoof and shifted toward the other side of the stall. I bolted out of that barn and made my way home to the inn, where I mounted the grandfather clock, remaining there until the cuddy smell had vanished completely—several days, if I remember right.

  And now cows were out to get me again. Where was my cream? I wanted my cream! Cream! Cream! Cream!

  “Is her hair standing on end?” Mom said.

  “Looks that way,” said Bertha.

  “I wonder if something’s wrong with her.”

  “Something’s wrong with her, all right. She wants her cream.”

  “You think?”

  “I know.”

  Mom gazed down at me. “What a funny little character!”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Bertha said.

  “Come on, Bertha. I know you love her.”

  “Hrrmmph,” said Bertha. That’s a sound she makes to show she loves me, just in case you were wondering. Mom’s always right about the big things.

  Meanwhile she’d opened the door to our quarters and was calling up the stairs.

  “Bro? Are you awake?”

  “No.”

  “I want you to walk over to the Doones’ place, see if they’re on the way with the milk.”

  “And cream,” Bertha said.

  Yes, she loves me, loves me very much. Very nice, although not surprising.

  “What about Harmony?” Bro yelled down. Bro and Harmony are twins, but not the identical kind. I’ve heard that explained to so many humans so many times that it makes me crazy. When I’m crazy my fur stands on end. Like now. I was having a very bad day and it had hardly begun.

  “I picked you,” Mom said.

  “Why?”

  “Luck of the draw. And take Arthur. He could use the exercise.”

  I DREAMED I WAS AT A COOKOUT. I LOVE cookouts so this dream couldn’t have been any better. Bro was at the grill flipping burgers. Burgers flipped by Harmony stay flipped. Burgers flipped by Bro have a way of getting loose from time to time. That’s something I’ve noticed all by my very own self. You may hear that old Arthur doesn’t have a lot going on upstairs. Don’t you believe it! I’m upstairs every night, sleeping under Bro’s bed. That way I have two roofs over my head, one the bed and the other the actual roof. What could be snugger than that? So there I was caught up in a very snug dream, a burger in my near future, when from over in the meadow I heard the mooing of a cow. Was this mooing part of the dream? Or part of whatever happens in the world when I’m all caught up in a dream? Whoa! That was a deep thought. I prefer the other kind, not so deep. With all this confusion going on, my lovely cookout dream faded away until there was nothing left but the smell of grilling burgers. I came very close to waking up, settling into a nice doze at the very last moment. Arthur dodges a bullet! Which had actually sort of happened once with real gunfire, a big event for all of us at the inn, although the details grow sketchier every day. One thing I know how to do is keep a clear mind. A clear mind is ready for anything!

  Just above me on the bed, Bro made a soft sort of dozing murmur. Mom always says it helps to be really good at doing at least one thing in this life. No worries. We’re champion dozers, me and Bro. I heard a few more moos, but distant now, almost at the edge of what I could hear, so maybe beyond what your ears—rather small compared to mine—can do. Distant mooing turned out to go very well with dozing, and so did the sound of rain, pitter-pattering on the window. This day was off to a great start.

  And it could have gone on and on just like this, as far as I was concerned, but then, from somewhere below, came the voice of Mom.

  “Bro? Are you awake?”

  From the bed above came a low groan. Then Bro raised his voice and said, “No.”

  Whew! Lucky for him. If he’d been awake, how could he have avoided whatever Mom wanted him to do? I couldn’t think what that might be, but it was sure to be worse than what we had going on right now. I really loved Bro at that moment, hard to explain why. Except that I always love him, of course.

  One little problem. Mom didn’t seem to have gotten the message. “I want you to walk over to the Doones’ place,” she was saying, “see if they’re on the way with the milk.”

  Then came Bertha’s voice. “And cream.”

  I had no interest in milk or cream, but some mornings Bertha fries up sausages. Suddenly I was wide awake, sniffing the air and listening for the hiss and bubble of sausages in the pan. Meanwhile there was some back-and-forth about Harmony, not easy to follow, and then from out of nowhere I came into the conversation, and in the worst possible way.

  “And take Arthur. He could use the exercise.”

  Downstairs in the kitchen, there was no pan on the stove, no Bertha, no sausages. We had Mom, dressed in jeans and a sweater; Bro, in his pj’s; and me, wearing my plaid collar. I also have a collar that lights up in the nighttime, and a Christmas collar with bells, but they both make me a little jumpy. Not jumpy enough to get me actually jumping, actual jumping being quite tiring, as I’m sure you know. Mom went into a long explanation about milk and cream and the Doones’ farm. Bro scratched himself under his arm and said, “Huh?” I hadn’t been even the slightest bit itchy, but all of a sudden I was itchier than I’d ever been! Life is so full of surprises! I scratched behind one ear with one back paw, and then tackled the other ear with the other back paw, moving on to the—

  “Arthur!” said Mom. “Get a grip!”

  I froze, one paw—or maybe more than one—in midair. Mom doesn’t look scary, but she can be scary just the same. I gave myself a real good shake, putting everything in the past. Meanwhile Mom seemed to be going over the whole milk story once more.

  “All right, all right,” Bro said. “I got it.”

  And the next thing I knew, we were in the front hall, Bro putting on boots and a yellow raincoat and me trying not to glance back toward the reception area—specifically at the grandfather clock. But then I did—I just couldn’t help it. And of course there she was, lounging way up on top, gazing down at me with one of those cool golden looks, a look with a clear message: I’m above you in every way. I gave her a look right back, better believe it, a look designed to let her know what was what, and in no uncertain terms. She yawned an enormous yawn.

  “Arthur!” Bro said. “What’s with the growling? Cool it!”

  Growling? I listened for growling, heard none.

  Bro opened the front door. “Let’s get this over with.” We went outside.

  Hey! It was raining! That took me by surprise. But then I remembered it was mud season. Mud season! My favorite season of the whole year, although I couldn’t think of the names of any of the others. And there was no time for thinking because down at the end of our long circular drive I spotted a nice big mud puddle, so inviting. I took off in that direction, maybe not at my top speed but much much faster than standing still. On the way, I made one little detour over to our snowman. We’d had so much fun building him, me, Bro, and Harmony. You make a snowman by rolling up balls of snow—a huge one, a not-so-huge one, and a small one, and then stack them up, also taking big bites out of them every chance you get. Harmony and Bro handled the rolling and stacking and I took care of the biting. That’s called teamwork, and we’re a real good team, the twins and me.

  But now—poor guy!—our snowman wasn’t looking his best. He’d gotten short and slumpy, and his face was blank. I raised my leg and marked him. Just part of my job here at the inn—didn’t Bertha often say, “Somebody let Arthur out so he can do his business”? Your mind can wander a bit while you’re out marking things—which you probably know already—so when I was done I couldn’t remember what I’d been doing before that. And then it came to me: mud puddle!

  “Arthur! No!”

  When you’re on the move, your ears flap around, stands to reason. And I was closing in on top speed, meaning I’d be reaching that mud puddle sometime soonish, certainly before lunch. But back to my ears. Flapping ears make a flap-flap-flapping sound in your head, surprisingly loud. And if someone says something while you’ve got that flap-flap-flapping going on, you may not hear that something right. Take “Arthur! No!” for example. Maybe that was it, but how can you be sure? What if it was “Arthur! Go for it! Go for it, my man!” Confusing, right? I ended up doing the best I could with the information available.